f she allowed herself to go on creating mountains out
of molehills she would soon have a whole range upon her hands.

And he had said he needed her!

Mechanically, she began to straighten the desk, restoring the
professor's notes to their proper places. She was feeling almost
sanguine again when her hand fell upon the photograph.

We say "the" photograph because, of all photographs in the world, this
one was the one most fatal to Desire's new content. She picked it up
casually. Photographs have no proper place amongst notes of research.
Desire, frowning her secretarial frown, lifted the intruder to remove
it and, lifting, naturally looked at it. Having looked, she continued
looking.

It was an arresting photograph. Desire had not seen it before. That in
itself was surprising, since one of Aunt Caroline's hardest-to-bear
social graces was the showing of photographs. She had quantities of
them--tons, Desire sometimes thought. They lived in boxes in different
parts of the house, and were produced upon most unlikely occasions. One
was never quite safe from them. Even the spare room had its own box,
appropriately covered with chintz to match the curtains.

This photograph, Desire saw at once, would not fit into Aunt Caroline's
boxes. It was too big. And it was very modern. Most of Aunt Caroline's
collection dated from the "background" period of photographic art. But
this one was all person. And a very charming person too.

Photographs are often deceiving. But one can usually catch them at it.
Desire perceived at once that this photograph's nose had been
artistically rounded and that its flawlessness of line and texture owed
something to retoucher's lead. But looking through and behind all this,
there was enough--oh, more than enough!

With instant disfavor, Desire noted the perfect arrangement of the
hair, the delicate slope of the shoulder, the lifted chin, the tip of a
hidden ear, the slightly mocking, but very alluring, glance of long,
fawn-like eyes.

"Another molehill," thought Desire. And, virtuously disregarding the
instinct leaping in her heart, she turned the fascinating thing face
downwards. Probably fate laughed then. For written large and in very
black ink across the back was the admirably restrained autograph,
"Benis, from Mary" ...

Well, she knew now!

A very different person, this, from the blond Miss Watkins with her
hard blue eyes and too, too dewy lips! Here was a woman of character
and charm.